


Ink

by MrMundy



Series: Metanoia [6]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMundy/pseuds/MrMundy
Summary: He'll drag the dragonborn down one day.
Series: Metanoia [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686898
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Ink

**Author's Note:**

> had this sitting in my drafts for a while and finally just. decided to post it. ari has a complicated relationship with hermaeus mora.

His dreams begin as though he's waking up. 

His eyes open and there above him floats a Seeker, a gnarled hand reaching toward him with what could only be read as curiosity. Ariquar bats the hand away, blinking to clear his vision of the green mist ever - present in Apocrypha. It doesn’t do much, of course. 

Standing, papers crunch beneath his feet. The Seeker, now bored of him, drifts lazily away toward an open tome sitting atop a stack of books, its tendrils trailing behind it. Ariquar struggles to focus, picking a direction at random to simply begin walking.

And walking.

And  _ walking _ .

He turns down a corridor, an archway made of books. Beyond the stacks, black oil surges in miniscule waves, tentacles rippling underneath the surface. As he becomes more aware of his surroundings, Ariquar is able to focus in on the smell of wet ink and old parchment that floods his senses. He coughs, kicking his foot to remove a page stuck to his boot. It sticks further, so he leans down and rips it from the sole of his boot, only to see an eye drawn across the middle of the page.

It swells off of the page, tendrils ripping from nothingness until the avatar of Hermaeus Mora is floating before him, dripping with void-like blackness, expanding from nothingness. 

“It has been some time since you’ve been here.” Mora’s voice drawls, slow and amused. Ariquar shrinks back, a grimace across his features.

“I did not choose to visit,” he says, watching the eye in the middle of the mass follow him.

“And yet you’re here. But why?” Mora continues, "You are not like Miraak. You do not crave power the way he did. What brought you here?"

“I’m asleep.” Ariquar says, plainly, and watches the eye close slowly. 

“Your mortal body sleeps. But you’re drawn here. It is just as I said before.” 

The following pause feels stifling to Ariquar. He wants to turn and run, to wake himself up and be rid of Mora’s meddling, but he knows that’s not going to happen. 

“I thought it was obvious that I did not want to serve you the first few times we interacted.” Ariquar says, and Mora laughs at him, slow and pitched strangely.

“It is inevitable. At some point, you will return here for good, just as Miraak did.” It sounds strangely like a threat and a welcome at the same time. Ariquar frowns further, crossing his arms over his chest to stare down at the mass of tentacles and eyes writhing before him.

"You can think that, Mora, but I will continue to refuse you."

"Your confidence is astounding, Dragonborn."

The paper beneath his feet begins to fall away, wet with ink soaking up from the bottom. He slips, hands reaching for the edge of the sudden sinkhole, fingers meeting naught but cold, wet ink and crumbles of parchment that muck his hands. 

He doesn't dare chance looking downward, knowing the sea of ink beneath him, writhing with black tendrils ready to pull him under.

  
  
  
  


A hand on his shoulder shakes him awake. Ariquar blinks, slowly lifting himself up to look around - he feels a paper stuck to his cheek and snatches it away, letting it fall to the surface of the desk he was laying on. 

Of course. He’d fallen asleep partway through writing. 

He turns to look at who’d woken him and it’s his sister, a brow raised as she looks over the leaves of paper haphazardly strewn over the desk and fallen to the floor. Ariquar smiles, leaning onto his elbow to make himself look innocent, and watches her expression turn from confused to a reluctant smile.

“Didn’t know you still made a habit of this,” She teases, and Ariquar laughs, sheepish. Beneath his arm lay a page written with his details of the events in Apocrypha. An adventure long since passed, the earliest days of his trials as Dragonborn. He shoves the pages away with his elbow as he moves to stand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Faewen stands back, hands on her hips, watching him with a concerned expression.

“Are you alright?” She asks, and Ariquar nods once, brows furrowed.

“I’m fine. Completely fine.” He says, and he thinks his voice is certain. It wavers slightly, but Faewen makes no comment. Instead, she simply ushers him away from his desk and toward the rest of the house, saying something about getting him some proper dinner.

Underneath his desk, the Black Book slumbers, locked in a chest beneath the floorboards. 

It’s patient, just as its master is.


End file.
